The Odalisque
by poppy23
Summary: Since leaving Hogwarts, Lorcan has wandered the globe aimlessly, searching for anything to pull him in. Quite unexpectedly, he stumbles across an old acquaintance in the backstreets of Wizarding France on a night that will change him forever.


THE ODALISQUE

After weeks in lingering warmth of the Spanish climate, the wind of Metz across Lorcan's pale cheeks was a sharp shock, though perhaps not entirely unwelcome. It echoed London, the great, grey city that he rather missed after an absence of 2 years, during which he had been blown around the globe by a desire to seek nothing in particular, and finding as little. The decision had barely been conscious. His last term of Hogwarts ended, and his mind entirely unsettled, Lorcan (quite romantically, he had thought, and with scarcely a goodbye to his long-suffering family) jumped on the International Enchanted Express from Platform 2 ½ at King's Cross and disappeared, spare a few scribbled letters every few months, subtly requesting money for his Gringott's vault.

And now here he walked, on the edge of North-Eastern France, under the permanent big wheel erected in the centre of the town. But he wandered with direction, and located Rue Serpenoise without great difficulty. And, as his IEE guide book dictated, there soon emerged a small back-street that none of the busy muggles seemed to be using, and thus he found it: Rue de Merlin. It was a long, thin alley with narrow, Germanic buildings stretching upwards, and although not buzzing, the number of eccentrically-dressed individuals hovering outside the shops and cafés indicated that this did indeed constitute some kind of magical community.

Hungry from his journey, and with little desire to explore just get, Lorcan turned into the first patisserie he stumbled across, and sat down with a croissant, a black coffee and the evening edition of 'Le Monde de la Magique,' though his poor French restricted him from making out more than a few basic phases. So he watched the world outside, witches and wizards going about their business, as he had observed them to in every other city in every other continent, their piles of leather-bound books and intricate silver ornaments fluttering around. Across the road he caught site of a handsome young wizard, probably younger than himself, dressed in fine robes of midnight blue examining a cauldron in the shop opposite. Lorcan took to watching the boy, watching his thick, dark hair shimmer and his soft, pink fingers roll along the object's silver side. He became quite lost in his observing, until a musical voice caused him to start and spin around.

'Lorcan, is it not?' He turned to see none other than Louis Weasley, who, though he did not know him intimately, Lorcan had met several times at the Burrow on various celebratory occasions in his adolescence. Louis must be 30 now, and was incredibly handsome, with lightly golden hair and elegant, angular features. He lived in France for around 5 years now, after falling hopelessly in love with a young, artistic girl named Aurélie when visiting his grandparents one summer. And now Lorcan thought about it, he vaguely recalled a mention of the pair moving to Metz, and the Wizarding World was, after all, very small.

'It is,' smiled Lorcan, standing to shake his hand. 'What a coincidence!'

'Quite,' Louis replied with a noble look, 'Me and Aurélie have a bookshop further along the road – we live in the flat above. What on earth brings you here?'

'I don't really know,' he said, feeling ridiculous as he did when he tried to explain exactly what he was doing.

'Well, you're young; you're not meant to know.' Lorcan laughed at Louis' old-man tone.

'Louis, I assure you, you remain in the spring of youth.' And Louis sceptical look in reply was somewhat betrayed by the subtle gratitude in his eyes.

'You must come and see the shop,' he implored, and Lorcan was slightly taken aback by the level of warmth from a man he scarcely knew, but the eyes were so invitingly, peacefully blue that even Lorcan the renegade could not resist. Walking up the road they exchanged polite small-talk: Yes, his parents were well; no, he had not hear from a Weasley since leaving school; and yes, Aurélie was well and the business was fine; the climate was much like England but the food was better, and all of this inspired in Lorcan an overwhelming wish to flee, just as they reached the shop: Les Livres Magicaux de Metz.

They immediately ascended the stairs, which were dank and dark, and arrived at the flat. Upon the opening of the door, Lorcan nearly gasped at the surprising beauty of the place. Small, enchanted lights hung in the air, creating a warm, orange light, the furniture was plump and soft and the walls all painted a warm, soft blue. And then Aurélie appeared, her back to the window through which the sun set. She was pretty, with plaited dark hair, full, olive skin and wide, wide hazel eyes. Her figure was small and soft, wrapped in close-fitting lilac robes. Introductions were made and polite questions asked, when she inquired where he was staying.

'I don't have a booking yet, but I saw the Hotel Métropole across from the station, so I thought I'd end up there at some point tonight,' he mumbled. It felt too strange to be around people who knew him for the first time in over 24 months. He had grown accustomed to anonymous solitude.

'Well zen, you must stay 'ere!' she exclaimed, in her forceful little manner that inspired confidence. 'Louis, tu es d'accord?'

'Bien sur,' he replied with a slight smile, and Lorcan's reluctance melted away. It was also nice to be wanted.

'Zen you will 'ave to excuse me,' she said, walking through the pair of them towards the door, 'I am seeing some girlfriends tonight. So I 'ope I will see you in the morning, Lorcan, if you are not awake when I return.' And she pecked Louis on the cheek and with a flourish of her robe, vanished behind the door.

'And I will get the wine,' smiled Louis, vanishing around a corner into the kitchen. This flat was definitely bigger than it looked from outside. 'Make yourself at home!'

But as Lorcan went to recline in one of the plump, velvety armchairs he caught a glimpse of a face in the mirror that he scarcely recognised. He wandered towards it and looked more carefully; when was the last time he had seen himself? His wavy, brown hair had grown unkempt and fell loose around his prominent cheekbones, from below which stubble now sprung, while there were dark, dark bags under his large, silvery-blue eyes, whose former look of wonder had now dulled. With a sigh, he slipped into the chair, as Louis returned.

'The finest, elf-made wine we own,' he smiled, and added under his breath, 'which isn't saying much.' And then crouched by the fireplace and muttered 'incendio', which caused a small shoot of flames to emit from his wand and into the waiting wood. Lorcan watched his nape, with its small golden threads dispersing and ending, and when Louis turned around he looked at his eyes.

'What's Hogwarts like these days?' asked Louis, settling down into the opposing sofa, and sending a goblet of wine levitating over to Lorcan.

'Well, I can't say now specifically,' he said, catching the goblet, 'but when I left I imagine it was much the same as when you did: quidditch, houses, lessons, professors… the usual.'

'You don't sound particularly enchanted by the experience,' Louis smirked.

'I can't say I was. I suppose it was a tranquil place to study, most of the time.'

'Ravenclaw, I presume?' to which Lorcan replied the affirmative, 'and your brother too?'

'Oh, no, Lysander was quite the Hufflepuff. Sensationally pleasant,' he said, allowing a note of contempt to slip into his voice, but the older man did not seem to pick up on it.

'Gryffindor, personally,' said Louis, but Lorcan already knew. He recalled venturing to the Burrow for some birthday or wedding or other and the great, forceful admiration for the dashing Louis that little Lorcan had: 11 years his senior, Quidditch hero, head boy, but not loud and pig-headed like James and Fred had seemed, still seemed, debatably. 'But another drink?' asked Louis, for neither had noticed how fast the first had been drunk. They were poured. 'Now, you must tell me,' said Louis, looking at Lorcan with those steady, inquiring eyes, 'what are you doing in France?'

'Oh, it's not just France,' he replied, 'It's been Italy, Holland, Turkey, Vietnam, Japan, Brazil, the States, Kenya, Spain most recently – I came straight from Madrid. Two years of wandering the crust of the Earth and not a shred to show for it, certainly not a galleon.'

'I can't imagine you went looking for galleons,' laughed Louis, 'nineteen and the whole world waiting – never concern yourself with money, only pleasure.'

'You speak like an old man,' he said, rolling his eyes. But Louis shook his head tiredly.

'Oh, I am an old man. I have a bookshop and a pretty girl and a reasonable amount of money. I am creeping into middle age – which is to say death,' he added with an affected irony, and Lorcan smirked. 'No, no, in all seriousness I know 30 isn't old. But the trouble is that I still feel like you – wandering around, not having a clue, only I'm here, persistently here.'

'Well, it seems lovely. Beautiful architecture, a Wizarding district, beautiful people, as Aurélie and a youth that caught my eye have demonstrated.' Lorcan's sexuality had never really been a secret, and indeed there had been no need for it to be – the world of the mid-30s was a rather glorious one in truth. He looked at Louis; the fire cast yellow shapes across his forehead, like the reflections of sunlit topaz. And Lorcan thought for a moment that Louis looked at him too, the eyes of liquid silver. 'And beautiful books,' said Lorcan, extending a hand to the enormous volumes piled up on the table between them.'

'I'll agree with you on the last count,' smiled Louis, raising another glass and passing Lorcan his own fresh one. 'Come here and see them.' And the pair slipped from their chairs and kneeled over the table, Lorcan's eyes pouring over one particular book, bound in black leather, emblazoned on the front in gold ink a woman, half-naked, wrapped in a shawl.

'What is this one?' Lorcan asked, and Louis' face lit up. He had clearly hit a point of interest.

'Have you heard of the odalisques?' Lorcan had not. 'Well, in the Ottoman empire they were servants to the wives of the Sultans, and trained as concubines if they were lucky. It's a fascinating history, all about the strange magic they supposedly attempted to get themselves noticed by the Sultans. One story is of a young odalisque who enchanted herself to dance perfectly, but she didn't know the counter-charm and they say her skeleton still dances today.' They exchanged an enthralled look, as Lorcan flicked through the pages and the light of the fire danced around the enchanted drawings. It was a warm, night of that topaz light. His eyes flicked up to Louis, whose skin was balmy and flawless in the dull light, an Adonis with rose lips and golden hair. And the eyes looked back, and they both looked at each other for too long, and the fire roared.

Louis slumped back against the foot of the sofa.

'Do you know how I'm wasting away here? At Hogwarts there was promise of oncoming brilliance, and it's descended into this – this acceptable _this_. I simply feel like I missed something quite perfect – and I have no idea what it could be and I doubt I ever will. It was a vague inkling in my mind, and at some point it began to feel like it was in the past.' There were almost tears in the shiny eyes. The look between them was stronger now, and spoke of the quiet years that rolled on, ever on. The eyes that knew how dreams transform and fade, fluttering away into the night and re-appearing deep in the mess of regrets and grief that gather up through the long, loud tangle of time we live. And Lorcan knew. He just knew.

So he kissed him, of course he did. Kissed him like the odalisque would enchant herself to: softly, tenderly, gently, hotly, wetly, fiercely, desperately, madly. And though Louis flinched, he did not pull away, but relaxed into Lorcan's soft, thin grip and for a moment in the night loved him, loved him so dearly as if he were the elusive perfection that had slipped from view but rose like a throbbing star this night, this bright, bright night. And Lorcan looked at Louis in all his tall, statuesque perfection, with his light but firm chest and strong, clean jaw that was sweet, sweet to kiss. And the quiet arms absorbed him all and there was topaz light all around in the warm, warm night.

And in the morning there was a note on that table that he had caught the train to Cologne.


End file.
